


Waiting For The Miracle

by Arcane_Conundrum (Arcane_Palm)



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: (Slightly!), Angela reflects on the past and where she is now, Gen, I may or may not have referenced the plot of something else several times but shhhhhhhhh, Introspection, Memories, Pre-Canon, Reflection, Sometimes you just gotta stare at an old book and think y'know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 19:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30094221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcane_Palm/pseuds/Arcane_Conundrum
Summary: Towering over the town of Monte d’Or, the Ledore Mansion rests in a state of quiet tension. Sorrowful eyes glance down at the winding path beyond its gates; a reluctant hand reaches out to touch the smooth glass of a large window; a figure waits, a familiar burden weighing on tired shoulders.-Angela Ledore has waited 18 years for the impossible. But what would Monte d'Or be without a few miracles?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	Waiting For The Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Leonard Cohen's song of the same name! Shayfer James has a cover of it that totally slaps!  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy!!

Towering over the town of Monte d’Or, the Ledore Mansion rests in a state of quiet tension. Sorrowful eyes glance down at the winding path beyond its gates; a reluctant hand reaches out to touch the smooth glass of a large window; a figure waits, a familiar burden weighing on tired shoulders. Frowning at the spritely marble statue beside the old stream, Angela Ledore sighs. 

An old book lies on the windowsill beside her, carrying an unspoken air of dignity within its creaking cover and well-worn pages. It was Randall’s favorite, she remembers, a story he’d rehearse to Henry and Hershel time and time again. And if he could evade his father’s watchful glare, he would rest on the calm, grassy hills of their hometown, writing endlessly in the crowded margins.

It was an interesting tale, some linear, chronological story stitched together with smaller vignettes. The author was extremely accomplished, having allegedly become a celebrated author, doctor, inventor, and self-proclaimed mystery-solver before her thirteenth birthday. Squinting at a small blurb—which lay proudly on the final page, beneath a photograph of the bright author—he would grin, proclaiming that the woman was “a true puzzle solver.” And young Angela would smile back, unsure of his reasons but willing to believe in them nonetheless. That loosely-bound pile of inked pages, after all, brought her great joy. In fact, it was her favorite book  _ long _ before it was his: her grandmother had bought it for her when she was a young girl, lively and craving an adventure of her own. She devoured the tales of hidden riches, confounding murders, and government scandals, hungering for her own chance to show the world her skill. She admired the tale of a girl who, following in the footsteps of the old Shakespearean Portia, concealed her identity to save the one she loved. She feared for a young thief as she became entwined in dangerous plots, and cheered as she forged her own path to justice and peace. The stories of marvelous inventions, hilarious fumbles, and downright  _ miraculous  _ feats never ceased to amaze her. One day, she knew,  _ she’d  _ do something amazing, something incredible, something that would leave the world in awe.

She raps her fingers on the wood, listening to the gentle  _ tap-tap-tap—  _ an undeniably satisfying triplet. In the distance, a clown carries a large beam, staring down a circus tent. The carnival  _ should _ stir some excitement in her heart, she knows, and she  _ should _ be excited for the classic festivities. But as she glances back at her bedside table, eying a pile of newspapers detailing the intricate miracles of the Masked Gentleman, she can’t help but feel some great dread rise in her chest. The town below seems as lively as ever, but it feels as if its denizens are in denial of some looming apocalypse. In the blink of an eye, the time will come, the Moon will fall, and Henry’s dream—Randall’s dream, even—will be destroyed.

Sometimes, she wondered if Randall got more out of the old book than she did. It would rest beside the window in his room—the very same one she’d haul Hershel through over the years. As he held his hand to the glass, staring off into the endless green with a wistful sigh, he’d glance down at it for a moment or two, reminding himself of the grand adventures he yearned for. In such a strict household, it seemed that archaeology and literature were his only escape. And puzzles, somehow. That last bit always confused her. 

She glances down at a crease in her dress, quickly smoothing out the soft cloth—Mrs. Ascot’s incredible handiwork—with a sigh. It has been 18 years since Randall Ascot disappeared, yet his essence lives on. The walls call out for him in calming whispers; the wooden floors pine for him in creaks and whines; the lights grow brighter at the simple mention of his name; and, of course, where would any of it be without its unattainable muse? 

She pulls nervously at her amulet—a familiar gesture—before squinting at the book again.

Randall enjoyed the stories she had long adored, but he had a favorite of his own. 

“That part about her friend’s friend…  _ incredible!  _ I’ve never seen such a beautifully tragic tale! The loss of innocence, his falsified death, his twisted return as a changed, broken man!”

He spoke with wide gestures, bright-eyed. 

“He was blinded by grief, manipulated by a great power unknown…”

Hershel Layton listened intently, subtly reaching for a puzzle cube on the nearby table. 

“But his friends helped him see the truth, and they sacrificed so much to save him…  _ amazing,”  _ Angela observed, stealing the spotlight. “The unraveling of lie after lie, the shocking revelation that—”

She cut herself short, placing a hand on her chest. 

“Well, I’m not going to spoil the rest for you, Hershel. You’d ought to read it yourself!”

The boy smiled nervously, glancing at the heavy tome. 

“Er… perhaps some day, Angela.”

Walking back from school one afternoon, the young couple found time to analyze the old tale. Randall reflected on the so-called “broken man” he had admired  _ so  _ recently.

“I get where he’s coming from, and all that, but if  _ I _ were in his shoes, I would  _ simply _ not be evil.”

“He wasn’t really  _ evil,  _ was he?”

He kicked at a sizable rock.

“He definitely didn’t make things any easier,” he scoffed, his deep-buried defiance bearing its teeth. 

“But anyway, I would  _ never  _ turn against my friends, even if I lost all my memories. I can’t  _ bear  _ to read that chapter, sometimes. His future was  _ so  _ bright, his friends had his back, and yet—”

“It was all a terrible accident, wasn’t it?” Angela asked, already well-aware of the answer. “Everyone assumed the worst.”

“Nobody  _ knew  _ that was going to happen,” she muttered, sticking her hands in her old coat pockets. 

“Well if something terrible happens to  _ me,  _ and  _ I’m  _ presumed dead, you can trust that when I miraculously return, I’ll be  _ extremely  _ polite!”

Despite generally meaning well, the young man quickly realized how  _ terrible  _ that statement sounded.

“Er, uh, I mean—”

“Randall, you shouldn’t be joking about these things!”

She stopped in her tracks, folding her arms. 

“Do you  _ know  _ I worry about you? And it’s not  _ just  _ me: Hershel and Henry care about you too. All of this exploring you want to do sounds fun— _ thrilling,  _ even—but you  _ can’t  _ deny the risks!”

He turned, glancing up at the clouds. 

“I’m  _ ready  _ to face the risks, Angela. What would life be without a little danger?”

He gave her a nervous smile, pulling at the edge of his scarf.

She sighed, refusing to meet his eyes.

“My  _ brother  _ said the same thing, once.”

Her words sliced through the still air, harboring an unspoken grief that was never quite resolved.

Randall bowed his head, weighed down by immense guilt.

“It’s important for you to follow your dreams, Randall. I could  _ never  _ tell you not to. I just want you to be careful.”

As the words escape her lips, the memory falls to pieces, tearing at the seams. 

Angela turns away from the grand windows of the Ledore Mansion, facing the dull ivory walls. 

She was a terrible girlfriend, a terrible sister, a terrible friend. But now? She became the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, a princess living out her “happily ever after” in a lofty mansion. 

“You don’t have to do this, dear,” a voice once called out, wise and resolute. Mrs. Ascot lingered in the doorway, her somber eyes aimed at the floor. “You don’t have to stay.”

And Angela had smiled  _ so  _ reassuringly, walking over to place a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“I chose to come here, and I wish to stay.”

But did she ever really have a say in the matter? 

If she hadn’t decided to wait with Henry, she’d be standing in some desolate room of  _ another  _ mansion, likely keeping Dalston’s dog at bay. At least her mother would be happy. 

Old Stansbury had little in mind for its youth: Alphonse had a fortune to inherit; Randall was a no-good dreamer; poor Henry was doomed to serve the Ascot household for the rest of his life; and hopefully, one day, Angela would marry into money _.  _ At least the youth had their own ambitions: Alphonse hoped to have a business of his own; Randall insisted on proving himself, daring to show the world that he was a capable archaeologist; Hershel was determined to live his own life; Henry silently wished to be acknowledged. But Angela knew a quiet life on her own terms was seemingly impossible—she was doomed from the start. 

She glances back at the old statue by the bridge. What lingers in her hometown? A ghost of her younger self clings to the hills of Stansbury, trapped by worry and grief. Some bit of Henry remained in the Ascots’ former mansion, some cheeriness and hope she no longer saw in his eyes. But then again, when Randall died, a little bit of everyone died alongside him. Even Alphonse was shocked, not-so-subtly holding back tears as the first of the search parties returned unsuccessful. And how could she forget about Hershel? She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. A great sense of guilt weighs on her chest. The devastation on poor Hershel’s face as he told her about the accident had remained fresh in her mind, although the anger she once held toward him has faded into regret. She turns to look back at the newspapers. If her theory is correct—and she grows more and more sure of it by the second—then there was no need for such fury, such great suffering. But after eighteen years, what could she possibly say? 

Calmly, Angela Ledore approaches a small desk, focusing on a small stack of papers. Rummaging through a nearby drawer, she retrieves a black pen, a jumble of words forming in her mind. Settling before a blank paper, she begins:

_ It's difficult to believe that it has been nearly 18 years. I'm sure this letter comes as quite a surprise, but I must ask for your help.... _

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was somewhat enjoyable!!! Apparently I've been working on this for almost 2 months?? Wild! Thanks for checking it out, and as always interaction is greatly appreciated.
> 
> BIG TY TO THE PL SQUAD AND DGS SQUAD FOR EVERYTHING! You guys are the best :)


End file.
